


Who Am I To Disagree?

by Pluppelina



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Power Play, Rated to be Safe, just a slightly masochistic Sebastian, no sex in this, the graphic violence is self harm with glass
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-24
Updated: 2012-12-24
Packaged: 2017-11-22 06:51:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/607017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pluppelina/pseuds/Pluppelina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"A MorMor-drabble featuring a scene where Moran deliberately closes his left hand around a broken piece of glass because Moriarty dares him to do it - and then licks up the blood."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Who Am I To Disagree?

It’s one of _those_ nights, a night where Sebastian’s ordered pizza for them both, ended up eating most of the food himself and washed it down with too much wine. Jim, well, Jim’s Jim, isn’t he, despite everything, not even half as drunk as Sebastian and definitely not as full. Not that it matters, not tonight, not on this sofa where Sebastian’s collapsed with his head in Jim’s lap and they’re sharing a glass of wine because neither of them has the energy to reach all the way to the table for the second one. Tonight, nothing matters except for the simple comfort of Jim’s hand in his hair and the fact that he can, with some assistance from Jim, drink from that glass without breaking contact with Jim’s warm thighs. 

It’s comfortable, and it’s safe, and it’s a reward for a job well done. Naturally that means Jim is bored before it’s even 11 pm, buzzing with well-contained frustrated energy. Sebastian’s used to it, so he can ignore it and stay his boneless, happy self, even if Jim’s fingers in his hair tighten their grip a little and the hand that tilts the wine glass becomes a little less generous with the servings. They’re just little glitches in the system, Sebastian thinks, just some little slip-ups because Jim feels safe, too. It’s fine, he figures. It isn’t until Jim tilts the glass so little that Sebastian can’t actually drink _anything_ that he reacts; he liked that, getting just enough wine at a time to keep the warmth in his chest and the grin on his face from fading, and if Jim’s taking that away he has to have a purpose, and Jim, restless and with a purpose, is dangerous by anyone’s definition.

He tries to compensate by tilting his head more, all the while very conscious that it does nothing but dig the sharp upper edge of the glass into his nose. They’re thin, these glasses, crisp and fragile and oh so expensive, which is the only reason Jim favours them at all. If it isn’t top notch, then Jim’s too good for it. It pleases Sebastian to know that Jim isn’t too good for _him_ , that out of all the men Jim has ever met, Sebastian is the one that was good enough to be his.

The thought is encouraging, empowering, so Sebastian reaches up to take Jim’s hand in his own, trying to angle the glass manually. Jim still won’t give and Sebastian’s growing ever-more annoyed, which means that he uses more and more force until eventually the inevitable happens - the glass cracks and breaks, landing in wet shards all over Sebastian’s shirt. Jim makes a surprised face that’s too over-the-top to be genuine, and Sebastian realises belatedly that he should’ve seen this coming. On the other hand, even if he had, what could he have one? It’s difficult avoiding Jim’s power plays on a normal day and being drunk with Jim never ends well - neither does being careless, and right now, Sebastian feels both.

Jim’s face stays one of mock surprise as he says, loudly and accusingly, “Sebastian, you _hurt_ me,” and Sebastian freezes on the spot as he realises just where this is going. Jim loves to play this game, after all, and he plays it too well for his own good - too well for Sebastian’s good, which is perhaps more to the point. Despite knowing people have ended up dead after they found themselves in this situation, he has to do his best to ignore the pull in his guts, because no matter what Jim does with his face and the sound of his voice, there’s a promise in his eyes that makes Sebastian feel the rush of submission. He’s sure it’s obvious to Jim when the shocked expression fades into his normal face and he adds, “That wasn’t very nice of you, and just when we were having such a good time. Bad Tiger. _Bad_.”

He can’t help it; those words hurt him, especially when this was so blatantly Jim’s fault; so blatantly something that Jim actually planned. If he hadn’t stopped giving Sebastian wine, none of this would’ve happened, but it’s a thing that Sebastian would never say. Still, he’s fighting this tooth and nail, this game and the erection that’s slowly forming because of it, because he doesn’t want it, not any of it. He knows all too well that he can’t say that, though. Instead, he turns his attention down to Jim’s hand and he barely has to glance at it to confirm what he already knows; there’s not as much as a drop of blood on it. “Don’t be a moron. That didn’t hurt.”

“Oh, but it _did_ ,” he insists, and there’s a bit of a dare to his voice, a dark undertone as though he’s trying to make Sebastian disagree with him once more and take the consequences for doing so. Sebastian knows Jim well enough to realise that it’s a very real possibility that is what’s been the entire purpose of this, to get a convenient excuse to punish him, and Sebastian also knows himself well enough to realise that it’s better to cut this as short as possible, for both their sakes. He doesn’t interrupt again, but he makes a face at Jim to just get it over with - and he’s sure he appears so much more cocky than he feels, because right now, all he wants to do is find a way to be a good tiger again.

“It was very disrespectful of you, you know,” Jim says, and it actually sounds like he’s disappointed in Sebastian for doing what he did. All the drunken happiness is long gone and it’s so very hard for him to not be affected by Jim’s down-putting tone. He already wants to make up for himself; he does, but Jim still goes on and if it wasn’t for the spark in his eye, Sebastian would say he had no idea what he was doing to him. But there it is, that one little sign that deep inside Jim Moriarty knows how badly this hurts, and he likes it, must do, because he goes on; “To not only hurt me but to also deny that I got hurt. Very _ignorant_.” 

The last word is spoken like a curse and it makes Sebastian wince. Whatever it is that’s going to happen next it can’t be good; they’ve gone way past the point of playfulness now and there’s no way this could turn into a joking, flirting _kiss me better_ \- not that Sebastian expected it to from the start, either. He hoped, though, god, he hoped, but this is simultaneously better and worse because there’s an order hanging in the air somewhere in between them, just waiting to be spoken so that he can obey it. “I’m sorry,” he tries, even though he has a feeling that it won’t be enough, but maybe it’ll trigger something; maybe he’ll get that order he needs so badly.

He’s proven right when Jim shakes his head, putting his lips together in a look of disapproval and rejection. “You say you’re sorry, but I don’t believe you,” he says, still shaking his head, moving it slowly from side to side in a manner that reminds Sebastian of a reptile of some sort. That, if anything, is proof that this is all a plan, but it doesn’t ease Sebastian’s guilt or his need to submit to whatever it is that Jim’s got planned for him. “I don’t think you can really apologise if you don’t know just how much that hurt. I think you’re going to have to hurt yourself before I can forgive you, Sebastian.”

Sebastian raises an eyebrow. He can’t tell if he’s disappointed or not; if all he has to do in order to play this game is to grab the other glass and crush it in his hand the way he’d done to Jim, it won’t be too bad. The way the glass collapsed had left Jim’s hand entirely intact, and he’s sure it’ll do the same for him. The worst thing by far would be the pieces of glass landing across his chest, but his shirt is already ruined, so what does it matter? “Fine,” he says, starting to sit up to reach for the other glass, but Jim’s hand on his shoulder stops him, presses him back down into the previous position again. “Where do you think you’re going, hm?”

Sebastian points helplessly, silently, towards the remaining glass. The realisation that he was wrong sinks in his chest like a stone, moves past it, lands in the pit of his stomach like something warm and arousing. He settles back silently, looking up at Jim and his disapproving eyes. “Oh, no reason to break _another one_ ,” Jim says, making a vague gesture towards Sebastian’s chest. “There’s plenty here already.”

Sebastian swallows as he waits for Jim to go on but the man does nothing; he only watches, expectantly. It takes another moment before something clicks into place in Sebastian’s head; Jim isn’t forcing him to do this. Jim’s only asking him to. He could just as well shove Jim off, go clean himself up and fall asleep in bed, forget all about this, start over tomorrow.

The only problem is that he doesn’t want to. He’s not even sure he could sleep if he tried, not with Jim’s disappointed eyes staring holes into him in the dark through the wall and the sheets and his own closed eyelids. No. Sebastian knows that he needs to make this up to Jim any way the man wants him to, needs to act out this in full to satisfy both of them, and if that’s by hurting himself on the pieces of glass on his chest, then so be it.

He looks down at them, the glittering pieces, stained with white wine and nothing else, not a drop of blood on any of them, but he knows that he’s going to have to hurt himself enough to provoke at least some blood if he is to do it _properly_ , and Jim has never been one to allow sloppiness in any way. Besides, he wants to do good, wants to do _perfect_ , so Sebastian picks up the piece of glass that looks the most mutilated, has the most sharp corners, and places it in the palm of his hand. It’s glass, and that means it’s soft, that it’s not going to cut deep, but it also means that it isn’t going to hold together for long. There’s going to be particles of it in the wounds, and that is going to hurt. He swallows and looks up at Jim, just to check this he’s doing okay. Jim nods, so Sebastian closes his hand around it. 

The edges dig into the palm of his hand and he can feel wetness start to rise around it as a soft moan of pain escapes him. He can’t help it. It goes against everything he is to hurt himself like this, to hurt his _hands_. It doesn’t matter that it’s his non-dominant one; those hands are how he makes a living, how he takes care of himself, how he’s managed to survive for this long, and now he’s making a fist around something that’s going to ruin them, if even only on a surface level - all because Jim has asked him to, and he has to, because he belongs to Jim know. It’s Jim’s hands, really; he only gets to use them. His heart is racing and he hasn’t felt that good all evening.

He moves to release the hand after a moment, but then Jim’s hand is on his suddenly. It’s not actually physically stopping him, just resting there, and yet it’s enough to make Sebastian hesitate and look up into Jim’s face again for a clue as to how to go on - and what he sees is not what he expected, at all. His boss’ eyes are fixed on his fist and if Sebastian didn’t know any better he’d say that Jim was looking at some pornographic. It makes his heart beat faster and his fist close harder and then it’s Jim that moans, ever so softly, and a drop of blood rolls down from underneath his little finger, drops down onto his shirt. It seems to distract Jim, the blood, the sight of blood, and suddenly he’s prying Sebastian’s fist apart. The bit of glass, now red around the edges, follows the drop of blood down and lands on his chest again but he hardly pays any attention to that because Jim’s brought the hand up to his mouth and now he’s _licking it_ , dipping his head down and running his tongue along the red lines.

It stings, more than the glass had, and when Jim looks back up at him, tongue still hanging out, obviously not done yet, Sebastian can see little pieces of glass on it. They’ll be everywhere, those fragile, tiny little things, healing in beneath the skin of his hand and dissolving in Jim’s stomach acid. Jim grins.

“Now you can apologise, love,” he says, leaning in for another lick, and Sebastian, rock hard and panting, does as he’s told like the good boy he is.


End file.
